"What?" I was confused.
"I mean that isn't my real name. But if we should ever meet again, that's the name you'll know me by.”
“I don't understand."
"1 didn't expect that you would, Mr. Victor. But there will be much that you don't understand tonight, the least of which is the reason I use a pseudonym. It's of no importance, really. Just remember to call me Mr. Putnam. Will you do that?"
“All right."
"Now, Mr. Victor,” he glanced down at the papers before him, “we have compiled quite an extensive dossier on you. Your father was a toolmaker, your mother a grade school teacher and you were born in the third year of their marriage. On the fourth day of July, 1933, to be exact. This event took place in Columbus, Ohio, where you subsequently grew up and attended both grammar and high school. You went to the University of Ohio and broke off your education temporarily in your senior year to enlist in the army. This was at the time of the Korean War, and you served with honor, earning a Silver Star for heroism and three separate citations of commendation from your commanding officer. After the war you resumed your studies at the University of Indiana where you later did post-graduate work with the Kinsey organization. You got your master's degree in . . ."
He continued speaking for a long time and there were things he knew about me that I'd forgotten myself. He had a list of every girl I'd ever dated. He knew which bars I frequented. He even knew what kind of toothpaste I used.
“I don't get it," I said when he'd run down. “Why have you gone to all this trouble? What do you want from me?"
"We went to all this trouble, Mr. Victor, to establish the extent of your patriotism and loyalty to the United States of America. And let me compliment you. What we have learned establishes you as a man who loves his country beyond any doubt.”
"Sure I love my country. So what? Doesn't everybody?"
“Perhaps. But not everybody is in a position to be as helpful to their country as you are, Mr. Victor. The question is, are you willing to risk your life to aid your country?"
"Well, sure— But how? I mean I’ll be glad to do anything I can, but I still don't see what I could possibly do that could be helpful to you."
“This research program you're engaged on, Mr. Victor, gives you entry to places the United States government could never officially investigate. The key to a factor which may prove quite vital in our handling of international power politics lies in one of these places. Also, sheer chance has thrown a contact your way which will be invaluable if you agree to help us."
“I agree. Now suppose you fill me in."
“Not so fast, Mr. Victor. I must warn you first that this could conceivably cost you your life. The risks are very great. They are even greater than those faced by the usual secret agent. As a matter of fact, they're precisely double."
“All right. I'll accept the risks. But you're still being awfully vague, Mr. Putnam. Why don't you tell me exactly what it is you want me to do?”
He shook his head “I can tell you only a small part of it. When you leave here, the girl will leave with you. She has no idea of this. She has no idea why she's here. But, take my word for it, she will accompany you to any place you want. She's in trouble, and if you provide her with a refuge, she's bound to accept it gratefully.‘ All we ask is that you keep her with you until three p. m. tomorrow. At that time, if you play your cards right, she'll be content to wait for you when you leave her to keep your appointment."
“What appointment?"
“You will go to the Cafe Apocrypha at precisely three p.m. There will be a large man with a trimmed Van Dyke beard seated alone at one of the tables. He will have his baton and there will be a green feather in the brim. You will go up to him and in English you will ask if he has an American cigarette. He will reply ‘No, only Russian.’ Remember—-‘No, only Russian.’ Those exact words. If he says that, join him. If he doesn't, leave immediately and go back to your hotel."
“Can I ask who this man is?"
“His name is Vladimir Potemchenko. He’s a Russian secret agent."
"A Red agent? Is it safe to trust him?"
“Yes. In this case, yes.”
“Why? Has he defected or something?" I asked.
“No. He is completely loyal to the U.S.S.R. He's not a double agent. He'll be acting on instructions from Moscow. And he will tell you what to do."
“Wait a minute! Let me get this straight. I'm to meet a loyal Red agent and do what he tells me? Is that right?"
“Exactly.”
I was beginning to get dizzy. "But that's crazy," I protested.
“Not crazy, Mr. Victor. But, as I must keep stressing, extremely dangerous. You see, negotiations involving this affair have been carried out only at the highest level. Only certain key people in Washington and Moscow know about it. To Potemchenko, you will be an American traitor in the pay of the Soviets. If he, or any of his cohorts, should find out differently, they would doubtless think you were betraying them and arrange to have you killed as quickly as possible. On the other hand, if our Intelligence, or that of our Allies, should get wind of your working with the Russkys, you would immediately be branded an American traitor. And, it's quite possible that the situation will be such that nothing could be done to exonerate you. In addition to these, there are other, more immediate dangers which will become apparent to you from your contact with Potemchenko. That's as much as I can tell you now. Are you still willing?“
"Yes," I told him, both frightened and intrigued. “I'll do it."
“Good luck then. You can leave now. No matter what happens, don't come back to this embassy. We don't want you traced here."
Putnam led me out a side door to a darkened driveway. A car was waiting there with the lights off and the motor running. The girl was already in the back. I got in and the car moved off swiftly. It wound through a maze of back streets and then stopped.
"Out." The driver spoke the one word.
We got out.
He drove off and we stood there looking at each other. The neighborhood was familiar and I realized we weren't too far from my hotel. I smiled at the girl and she smiled back tentatively. "What's your name?" I asked her.
"Teska Hosnani."
“You speak English. That's good. Well, Teska, where do we go from here?”
"I have no place to go."
“Then would you like to come to my room with me?"
“I would like that. I am grateful to you. I will show you how grateful."
Entering my hotel room, I turned on the light and for the first time I got a good look at this girl. It was easy to see why she'd attracted the lust of the young Arab hoodlums. Most Muslim women wear only three items-—sandals, a veil, and a sort of sheath which covers them from neck to ankle. Teska's sheath was semi-transparent and her charms rippled enticingly beneath it. I also noticed that her veil was studded with jewels, as were her sandals. She was obviously no ordinary Damascus streetwalker.
“Sit down,” I told her. “You must still feel pretty shaky after what you've been through."
“Such things are common here," she told me, sitting on the edge of the bed.
"Really?"
"Yes. Every Muslim girl, by the time she reaches my age, knows what it is to have been raped."
"You're exaggerating."
“No. We come to sex very young in this country. Often, it is sex combined with violence. But the street boys are the worst of all. They travel in gangs, take overdoses of kayf and spend their lust insanely on whatever is handy. If they get a woman, they will rape her three or four times each, forcing their inflamed manhood into every conceivable bodily orifice. If a woman isn't handy, they'll attack a man, or a child of either sex. With them sex is always brutal. And under the influence of kayf, if there is nothing human around, they'll satisfy themselves with stray dogs, or cats, or even by rubbing madly against inanimate objects. Such boys are the terror of Damascus, a threat to any woman, be she prostitute or merchant's wife."